


Hard Luck Pie

by Lucifuge5



Category: Canadian Actor RPS
Genre: AU, Canadian RPS, M/M, c6d
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:10:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucifuge5/pseuds/Lucifuge5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"You name it, I can bake it." Callum shrugs coolly.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard Luck Pie

**Author's Note:**

> I'm infinitely grateful to my Beta, the lovely and enthusiastic Sionnain . An additional fangirl curtsy to Akamine_chan who not only cheered me on when I was all "oh, noes this story is krazayyy!' but who also came up with the bakery's name. Hee!

* * *

In the good old days, Hugh would have been headlong into his umpteenth beer, happily surfing the euphoria that followed a good show, at one of his favourite dives. Instead, he is rolling off his bed at the very uncool hour of 2 in the morning, nowhere near the point of general coherence. Scratching his balls as he walks out of the bedroom, part of him, the_ responsible_ part is already nagging about calling Paul to see if he’s been able to find someone. Time is running out.

He squints at the razor brightness of his bathroom while taking a leak--that’s one motherfucking intense light bulb right there--and stifles a yawn as he steps into the shower. The hot water splashing on his skin, especially after almost-falling on the bathroom floor when he was pulling his black boxer briefs down, manages to stir him up. He is beginning to feel human again. Shaving can wait until after he has had some of the fancy-but-oh-so-worth it Balinese coffee, though. Hand-eye coordination being a necessity when handling blades and all.

A half hour and a cup of black coffee later, he is stepping out into the night, wearing his usual black sweater, ratty long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans combo, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. Bread, after all, waits for no one.

The streets are quiet, like someone had turned the volume all the way down, as he drives his blue truck past Nelson Park. Even with his window down, everything is too still, making him feel like he is the only man alive. He swipes a hand over his shaved head while keeping the other one on the steering wheel, no need to get spooked. Just as he goes to turn the radio on--maybe there could be find something other than that country western station this late into the night-- his cell phone glows and an unearthly howl fills the truck’s cabin. Ah, Paul is right on time.

"Yello," he grumbles as he flicks the cigarette on the ashtray. Maybe he should have had that second cup of coffee before leaving home.

A warm voice echoes in his ear. All mock sincerity and honey. "Hope I didn't wake you."

"Nope,” he sighs as the nicotine runs through is body, “on my way to work, actually." Fucking Paul. How is it that he can sound so goddamn cheery this early in the day? "Jim was in the store til late yesterday, but the main pipe is now fixed."

"Beaver never lets you down."

Hugh tries not to chuckle and is not entire successful. “Fucker.” He eases the truck into his designated space and turns off the engine. "Hey, I'm almost at the door," he says as he checks the surrounding areas. No use on getting mugged by some wannabe thug. Cradling the cell phone between his left shoulder and his head, he picks up his backpack before leaving the relatively warm confines of his car. His cigarette is almost out. "Any luck finding someone?"

Paul exhales. "Nope. No one even worth mentioning about. Based on the amount of people I've seen, I am _this_ close to believing that the schools are willing to give out diplomas to anyone who can afford one."

"Oookay," he says as he drops the cigarette on the floor and steps on it. Leave it to Paul to bring his kooky perfectionist nature into selecting their next baker. Still, it’s not like he would want to switch places. For one thing, Paul can’t bake for shit. "Do I need to remind you that we are working on a deadline here? Our sole employee is leaving in six days!"

"Hugh," Paul grumbles tiredly, "the whole idea of this is to get someone whose pastries are so well liked as to make our business quasi-obscenely profitable. May I remind you that _you_ were the one who wanted to see this eventually expanding? For that, we need the talent, but also something behind it that can make bringing in someone new absolutely worth it."

"Geez, Paul, put a lid on the verbiage, okay? Sun's not even up and you are on the verge of talking about profit margins and symbiotic relationships! Call later if there is any news, okay?"

He hears Paul titter. "Okay. Who's your second today?"

 "Sandra's pitching in. You know, at this point, I think she's doing it for the nostalgia."

Paul is quiet for a couple breaths. "Yeah, I'll miss her too. Bye."

Hugh hangs up and zips up his black hoodie against the chilly air. He’ll feel warm and toasty soon enough.

*****

Sometimes, Hugh can’t believe he has actually lived through what had begun as a promising music career only to watch it gracelessly peter out despite all the heart, spit, sweat, snot and blood everyone spent on it. Trent and the boys had his back every fucking step of the way between the highs—chemical and otherwise--and the lows that follow them through the years. At the end, there isn't much to do but to agree that maybe, just maybe, their dreams of music stardom, no matter how close they seem to be, are not meant for them. He can still remember the almost-bitter taste in his mouth the very moment he realizes it might be time to dust off his apron and do something with his Pacific Institute of Culinary Arts diploma.

Neither it is in him to routinely ponder on how none other than Paul Gross, a fellow artiste --of the country western, not punk, community--, is one of the few who supports his return to the kitchen from the word go. Neither man is rich, though Gross’ head for finance and some modest investing on a couple of boring ass funds, helps them finagle most of the seed money for the bakery they both had liked over on Haro Street.

Hugh walks inside the dark storefront, punches the alarm code, and continues through a narrow hallway and towards the back room where they keep most of the flour, flipping the store's lights along the way.  The pantry will need restocking soon. On a whim, he ends up mixing a couple of batches of almost-wacky stuff alongside the usual marble rye and everyday muffins.

It takes him a few hours, but the end result is some mouthwatering lemon-banana bread, almond-cardamom maple biscotti and herbed butter rolls for the breakfast horde. Chef Nielsen, his mentor at PICA and primary co-conspirator in experimental cooking, would be proud.

A weak sun starts to filter through the windows as he wraps the rest of the daily tasks up. The automatic nature of the chores means his neurons are set on low for the time being. It takes him a while to realize that he is humming “Look Away” as he sweeps the floor. A hazy memory of lording over a brutal mosh pit over a decade ago makes him stop halfway through the second chorus. "Hey, Trent, remember how--" he turns around and feels momentarily displaced at being completely alone. The smile that had begun on his face disappears. “Aw, fuck.”

It still hurts. Trent leaving that is. His then-best friend’s voice sounds rough on the voicemail from two weeks back: "I want a music career, Hugh. It’s my dream. It was _our_ dream, dude. And I think we gave up way too early. See you around."

Good for him, good for them, good for the whole musical fucking world. The fact that Trent had been _thinking_ to vamoose without telling him til the very last minute still picks at him to the core. That sense of betrayal, after everything they go through, isn’t easy to shake off. It isn't as if they haven’t known each other forever and then some. And Trent, he is definitely musically inclined, but he was pure talent when it came to baking. Bitch never gave him his recipe for that blueberry cake surprise. Hugh twists his lips as he waits for the sour feeling to mellow out. “Two tears in a bucket, motherfuck it,” he mumbles as he goes to prepare the first trays.

*****

The phone rings a few minutes before seven and he shudders instinctively. Picking up the receiver, eyes closed, he inhales and exhales before opening his mouth. The first call of the morning is always the hardest. Sometimes he wants to giggle; sometimes he just wants to growl.

"Good morning, BUNS. Hugh here." Fucking Paul and his stupid names. _Just_ _imagine if we had put a SWEET in front of that, _Paul had said with mischief as he did a whole fucking song and dance routine when the time came to pick up the bakery’s name.

Hugh is going to strangle him one of these days.

*****

The morning crowd goes straight for the biscotti like it is going out of style. Thankfully, Sandra ends up coming in a half-hour early and is by his side as the still-sleepy office and construction workers hunger for the baked goodies.

It’s almost 11 a.m. by the time he can glance at the clock behind him. A prickly sensation on the back of his head puts him on alert. Out the corner of his eye, Hugh catches Sandra looking at him as she sorts out the sale slips. He hopes she is not looking for a heart-to-heart.

"Hey,” she says as she pushes the receipts to the side. And at this, he turns his head towards her, eyebrows raised in question.

Sandra is almost grinning at him. Like Alice’s Cheshire Cat. Trouble might not be too far behind, if he was to judge by experience. “You're still looking for someone to come here, right?"

Hugh nods at her silently; half-hoping she won't bring up any of the wacky roommates she has had throughout her years in Vancouver. That Molly chick couldn’t bake her way out of an Easy-Oven.

"Well, I think I might know someone who is cool enough to be okayed by you, and talented enough to wow even the very acute palate of one Paul Gross."

He looks up to her from the glass display that he is cleaning. "Oh, yeah?"

Sandra beams. "He hasn't gone through much schooling--"

"Oh, fuck me, Sandra! You know how fucking picky Gross can be. He even turned down that super-fancy Portuguese chef that _The Georgia Straight _raved around forever! And that guy taught at Le Cordon Bleu." This is almost worse than a ‘feelings’ talk. Hugh doesn’t want to piss and moan about any of Sandra’s friends, but that might not be an option. He makes a face.

"But," she says nonchalantly, "I personally know of three restaurants, including one that is rated four stars, which would do or pay _anything_ to have my friend amongst their staff. Oh, by the way,” Hugh’s stomach flips a couple of times as Sandra’s voice softens, “he apprenticed under McKellar and you know how picky Don is about teaching someone all about how to do choux pastry . . . ." At this, she spins towards the cash register and starts counting bills.

Sneaky, sneaky. Dropping McKellar’s name into the conversation would most definitely tweak Paul’s ear. Everyone knows he is** the** Patissier chef in all of Vancouver. "And what's the young lad's name?"

"Rennie. Callum Keith Rennie."

Hugh looks at her with his most serious face. "Ex-boyfriend?"

"No, though mostly because I was still hung up on that theater actor who worshiped Ibsen." She closes the register and purses her lips. "I know him from around."

“Uh-huh.” For once, Hugh isn’t in the mood to push things.

“His pumpkin orange cheesecake could bring you to tears.”

Hugh makes something of a show of 'thinking about it' though both Sandra and he know that things are going to be total chaos if they didn't pick someone else already. "Oh, alright, Sandy. Just tell that non-ex of yours to bring his sassy ass down here tomorrow after noon." She nods at him and goes to the back to take out the almost-done batch of cinnamon-apple tartlets out of the main oven.

*****

"What's his name again?" Paul asks as he fidgets with Hugh’s lighter—instead of his own--the following day. He’s covered in denim. Hugh can’t help snorting at the Paul-as-cowboy image. Talk about a security blanket. After all, it is _not_ as if he’s still wearing a Mohawk.

"Cal Rennard? No, hold on. Shit.” Hugh closes his eyes for a breath. “It’s . . . Cal--Callum Rennie. Sandra fucking sold me on him by telling me about the sugar pitch that his cheesecake has.” Hugh knows that Paul, micro-fucking-manager that he is, feels shaken up about not hearing about this dude from Sandra first. He feels a perverse joy from poking at Paul’s control freak tendencies.

"A master of the meringue is he?" Paul’s snappish tone is something Hugh has been expecting. He pulled a face yesterday when Hugh goes and tells him about the lack of 'official' certification. But even a particular snob like Gross can’t overlook the lure of a Don McKellar apprenticeship. 

"A lord of the Linzentorte indeed,” Hugh retorts as he scribbles a quick grocery list in haiku. Thankful that he doesn’t have anything even resembling a nervous tic, unlike tug-an-ear-every-other-moment-Gross, he clicks his tongue in a subtler display of anxiety. What if this Callum guy is a flake or worse? Hugh has met his share of psychopathic sauciers and disturbed sous chefs.

He is just about to throw a verbal low ball when a dusty dark red jeep pulls up in front of the bakery. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Paul checking out the slim guy who is presently behind the wheel, actively trying to get a couple of more puffs out of his cigarette before crushing it on the car's ashtray and getting out of the vehicle.

Hugh has gotten plenty of blow/hand/other jobs from people during his rock musician years without giving much thought to what lies between their legs. That he doesn’t hook up with guys as often as he would like nowadays has more to do with the long fucking hours he is putting into BUNS than his ability to pick up a naked times partner.

He opts not to make any sly remarks on how Paul is practically devouring this Rennie guy with his eyes. After all, that Callum dude is one sexy motherfucker.

  

Rennie is a tall guy, wiry yet healthy-looking, with close cropped blond hair and a calm expression on his face. Hugh focuses on the guy's hands. The long fingers-odd joints combination makes him think of a piano player. Sometimes he sees things from a musician’s perspective. It has its advantages.

Paul has stopped twirling the lighter. “The fuck is he carrying?” he wonders as he gets up and starts walking towards the door. Callum appears to be holding a hatbox.   

“Come on in,” Paul says, oozing that old Gross charm that can melt the panties off a nun, as he swings the door open before Callum can knock. 

If the other man is surprised, he doesn’t show it. “Hi, I’m Callum.”

 Hugh opts to stay back, taking in the care with which Callum places the hatbox on the counter before the blond man slides his right hand on his pants and stretches it out towards the two of them. “Um, sorry. Got a case of the sweaty hands here.”

Paul smiles as he shakes hands. “Nothing to worry about. I’m Paul and this is,” he says as he turns sideways, “Hugh, my partner and head baker here.”

Callum’s almost-green eyes squint for a second before flicking between Paul and Hugh, possibly searching for something though Hugh has no idea what. He is still giving off a very relaxed vibe so Hugh opts not make any assumptions. On any case, it’s hard to imagine that Sandra would have recommended someone who has extreme assholery. Kitchen people are a bit iffy at times and don’t wait long to bring that whole “I’m macho/keep away from me homo” crap. Hugh thinks it’s because of the constant proximity to the heat.

He offers his hand with a neutral face. Inside, however, he experiences an honest to goodness shudder of pleasure as he feels a strong grip in return. He clears his throat as an image of what he would, could, do to and with those hands pops in his head.

There they are shaking hands with Callum looking at him, quasi-calm green-blue eyes, and Hugh, with a side smile on his face. For a moment, he imagines Callum wearing a tight t-shirt, smelling of bread, edible and sweaty . . .  . He clears his throat. “Business partner that is. Paul is happily married and I’m happily not.”

Paul rubs an eyebrow as he looks at the two of them. He’s the type of guy who can read people to an almost visceral level. That Hugh doesn’t mean to be so unguarded might be a mistake in the long run. He points at the box to distract Paul before his partner makes a crack or two. “What you’ve got there?”

Callum doesn’t relax all the way which makes Hugh curious though he lets it pass. “Um, samples. You know . . . stuff that will wow ya?” At this, he opens up the hatbox and takes a platter with a few bite-size delicacies on it. “There’s some apple-maple caramel cheesecake, some fudge brownies Mexican-style, a pear-raspberry chocolate crumble, lemon-ginger tartlets and some praline puffs. Please,” he says as he gestures to partake of the samples.

Paul takes small bites of each, all seductive-like. Hugh has to stifle a laugh at his partner’s attempt of subtlety. His mouth tingles the way it tends to do after being thoroughly kissed. He looks at the piece of brownie in his hand as his brow furrows. “Mm, the brownies are a bit . . . uh, spicy?” He waits til Callum nods. “Huh, cool.”

Hugh moves onto the tartlets as he begins to wonder what kind of trouble Callum and he can get in the kitchen. He stares at Rennie’s hands, pictures them kneading, _massaging_, the dough _hard_. His cock is half-hard already.

“I wanted to focus more on the desserts partly because, let’s face it, most people like the usual stuff like apple pie and blueberry muffins, you know, but . . . there is a universe of stuff that I know they would dig given the opportunity,” Rennie says.

“How’s your artisan bread?” Hugh says in between bites of the delicious cheesecake. The idea of licking off Callum’s body makes him lick his lips a few times. He isn’t anywhere near crying like Sandra claimed he would be, but it is fucking good.

“You name it, I can bake it.” Callum shrugs coolly.

“So, why not stay under Don’s wing?” Paul can be a curious fucker and, for once, Hugh is fucking grateful. “I mean, the way people talk about it, you were being groomed to be his second.”

At this, Callum blushes and rubs the back of his head. “He—He had ideas of where I had to go and what I had to do and I wasn’t about to make promises, you know, I—I wanted to go elsewhere. On my own . . .um, we had a disagreement. I moved on.”

If Hugh is reading that the way he’s hearing it, Don had sniffed around Callum, maybe something happened, maybe he was rebuffed and they ended up parting ways. Interesting.

He looks over at Paul, who has begun telling Callum some odd story involving cilantro and late-night cooking hijinks, and decides to cut in. He can be fucking Alpha if he wants to, even if it pisses his business partner off. “I’ve got a feeling you’ll fit right here in BUNS, Rennie.” His face feels hot as Paul giggles for a beat and Callum gives him a shy smile.

“Well, I’ve got to catch on my sleep. I’m sure Paul will be able to fill you in about BUNS.” Head cocked, he raises an eyebrow at a grinning Callum. “Yeah, yeah, fucker, just you wait til you have to say that again and again to all of our customers.  I’ll see you tomorrow at 5:30 in a.m. Call me if and only if Paul burns the store down. Adios.” He tips an imaginary hat at him before stepping out of the store and taking a cigarette out of his pack. That he is feeling a bit jealous since Paul looks pleased as fuck to have Callum all to his little self is something that Hugh is choosing to overlook. For one thing, Paul flirts with everyone. For another, his eyes are starting to feel heavy with exhaustion.

*****   

 He picks up some Thai take out he chows down as soon as he gets home, wearing only his undershirt and boxers before settling in bed with a 1950s French cookbook. Usually, Hugh is able to drop onto his comfy mattress, read a few pages and fall asleep. This time around, however, his head fills up with a non-stop movie filled with Callum’s fascinating hands, the timid but sincere smile, his lips . . . . The stubborn hard-on he’s been sporting since his meeting at BUNS won’t go down without a fight so Hugh gives in, as the images in his mind turn decadent, pornographic. He is, not-so-subconsciously perhaps, replacing the faces of some of the guys he’s fucked with Callum’s as he starts to stroke himself through the knit material for a few moments before sliding his underwear down. . .

_Callum on his knees, licking the head of his cock tentatively as he looks up to Hugh, before swallowing him down to his root . . . _

_Hugh nibbling on Callum’s tender sac as Callum jerks himself off. A smile on Hugh’s lips once Callum spills all over himself . . ._

_Callum’s fingers, all lubed up, brushing against Hugh’s asshole, rubbing, **teasing,** until Hugh is almost hoarse with pleading . . . he feels two of them sliding into him . . . _

_The two of them in bed, grunting, as their cocks slide against each other’s, so close, so very close . . . _

Hugh surprises himself by the loud groan that echoes in his bedroom as he comes. He is semi-conscious as he grabs a shirt to clean himself off and drifts off to sleep.

*****

He catches himself before he spends some time picking what to wear the following night after his shower. “Grow the fuck up, Dillon,” he tells himself as he shakes his head and decides to don his usual clothing.

Paul doesn’t call him as he drives to work. This worries him for a few minutes until he remembers that it’s Martha’s birthday. He goes through the morning routine once he gets to work, opting to start with the simpler breads before his new second shows up.

Callum, wearing faded grey pants and a white t-shirt that is tight enough to give Hugh a whole new batch of ideas, waves hello as he crushes his cigarette under his shoe before stepping inside. “Morning.”

“Howdy, Rennie,” Hugh says as he tosses him an apron. “Paul taught you the ropes yesterday?” The croissants are a bitch to fold today. He feels Callum’s eyes on him. “Yeah?”

“You shouldn’t have let the dough out for that long,” is all Callum says as he steps next to him. “Here, let me show you something instead of having to chill it all over again. Hand me an egg?” Hugh looks on as Callum cracks and separates it before rubbing it on the dough. “The white will smooth it out for a little while without letting it get warmer.” Next thing Hugh knows, Callum is folding and shaping mini-crescents really fucking fast.

He waits until Callum has filled a tray and works on a second before checking on the muffins. Leaning against the door frame, he’s amused by how _easy_ Callum makes it look like. “Tricky fucker, ain’t you?” Hugh’s tone is playful.

“Don, um, he taught me a thing or two.” Callum might look like he is aiming for nonchalant, but the fierce blush tells otherwise.

_Bet he did_, Hugh thinks before moving on to the éclairs.

*****

As the weeks go by, Hugh isn’t shocked to see all the little things Callum picked up from his time with McKellar. His new second is equally, if not **more**, talented than Trent or even Hugh himself. What does surprises him is the matter of fact with which Callum reacts whenever he pulls one more culinary sleigh-of-hand.

Paul has these seemingly random snits whenever Hugh and Rennie are in the same room. The fact that Gross, who is married and very straight, is fucking jealous of the easy camaraderie Hugh and Rennie have, well, it’s pretty amusing.

“You always wanted to bake?” Hugh says as they share a cigarette in the alley next to the store.  The morning rush has come and gone, people were actually raving about the Mexican chocolate brownies and the cheese empanadas Callum had whipped up earlier, and they are both aching for a nicotine break.

Callum inhales. “I didn’t choose it . . . wanted to be an actor, actually,” he snorts with a smidgen of bitterness, “but I took to the kitchen quicker than I could ever the stage.”

Hugh nods. This sounds familiar. “Stage fright, huh?”

The sourness that had been hinted mere seconds before came out. “Paralyzing stage fright. I could engage and do the process in rehearsals, all that,” he makes a twirl with his right hand, “but put me in front of an audience and it’s like someone had splashed me with liquid nitrogen. Kitchen stuff, that’s easy. About the only thing you have to worry about is not deflating the soufflé and keeping stuff from burning.”

Hugh crouches next to Callum. “Hey, I sang my fucking heart out for years,” he says as he places a hand on Callum’s shoulder. “It never got easier—“

Callum doesn’t shake Hugh’s hand off. “But you dug it, right? More than breathing, even.”

“Fuck yeah. It’s such a rush, even the hazy parts.”

“Hazy?” Callum turns to him, looking at him in the eye, all interested and fuck if that doesn’t do things to Hugh.

“Long story,” Hugh almost-mumbles. “Hey, tomorrow’s a national holiday. Even BUNS is closed. How about hanging out?”

Callum lights another cigarette. “Um, I was thinking of hitting the green for a couple of hours . . . .”

Either Hugh is not up to his street lingo or this is some kind of abstract way of communicating he hasn’t learned yet. “Green? Wha—“

Callum blushes, which takes Hugh by surprise even more. “Golf. I’m going golfing.”

“Oh,” Hugh says trying very hard not to make a “you’re a weirdo” face. Who plays golf in fucking Vancouver? “Sounds, uh, cool?”

“Do you?” Callum looks at him sideways.

“Can’t say I’ve ever been,” Hugh says trying not to sound snobby about it. People have all kinds of hobbies after all. “I tend to be asleep when the courses are open, I guess.” He lets go of Callum’s shoulder and points to himself. “Life long night owl.”

“Ah.” Callum dips his head, looks at him sideways. “Semi-occasional insomniac.”

“So, what do you when you can’t sleep?”

“Paint. Abstract. Nothing that would ever hang in a gallery and sell for millions, but, um, I get this feeling that the whole world shuts down and I can let it go, you know?”

Hugh shakes his head. The same thing happens to him when he picks up a guitar or spends some time in his kitchen at home. He looks at his watch and winces. “Well,” he says straightening up and offering a hand to the still-crouching Callum, “I’m going to head home. Remember to set up the alarm before closing up. You can drop the keys off tomorrow at my house anytime after four or keep them til Monday. Whatever.”

Callum nods as he smokes. “Okay. Will do.”

*****

Wire’s _Pink Flag_ is flowing from the speakers in Hugh’s apartment the next afternoon. He is tapping his feet as he whisks hazelnut cream. Paul is off on holiday with Martha and the rest of his friends aren’t even awake yet. The idea of calling Rennie to meet him for a few late rounds of golf  is something he mulls over when he wakes at 3 p.m., but that’d come off as highly school girly of him. He lets the cream rest and goes off to chop off the strawberries when there’s a knock on the door. Hugh cleans his hands and goes to the hallway entrance.

“Hey,” Callum says with a grin. “I—um, you said I could return these anytime in the afternoon,” he says as he holds the key ring in front of him. He is wearing really comfy looking jeans and a short-sleeved plaid shirt.

“Sure, Rennie. Come on in. Take a load off. Brew?” Hugh is talking a little faster than normal as he waves Callum in. He hopes Callum doesn’t notice. “I was just working on some mini-gateau.”

Callum nearly grimaces. “I’m not much of a drinker,” he says while skimming the spread on Hugh’s kitchen. “Wow, and I thought you had only taken on baking as a side gig.”

Hugh blushes. “Everything I get into, I tend to fall head over heels for it. Must have lived in I don’t know how many warehouses when I was doing the musician thing. Once I got back in the kitchen, I wanted to have a place with the biggest kitchen possible. Even it meant having a bathroom the size of a postage stamp.”

“Lowdown” kicks in and Hugh is pleasantly surprised that Callum is humming along. “Never pegged you for a punk rock kid, Rennie. What with your golfing and your crafty ways in BUNS.”

“The Pogues, Wire and that whole posse kept me company for a long time. Still do as a matter of fact,” Callum says absentmindedly as he nears the kitchen table and hones in on the cream. “You mind?”

Hugh shakes his head no and is treated to the visual of Callum washing his hands before swiping his index finger on some of the whipped cream and licking it off. “Mmm, pretty good. Still,” he turns around and searches the cabinet behind him. “Needs some . . . vanilla.” He picks up and lowers a few bottles. “Aha! Gotcha! Lavender might be fancier,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes as he shakes a small brown bottle before pouring a couple of drops into the cream, “but vanilla extract is as reliable as they come. How about you finish prepping the berries while I bring this cream around?”

Hugh hands him one of his extra aprons. “Thanks, Hugh,” Callum says as he dips his finger in the batter again, “I’m cool.”

It doesn’t take long, between the two of them and endless repeats of _Pink Flag, _for the small cakes to take shape.

“You know what would be the kicker?” Callum says as Hugh is about to place the tray in the fridge. “Some confectioner’s sugar.”

“Um, I ran out,” Hugh says, “but I’ve got some cocoa powder?”

“Good. Bring it on.” Callum’s voice hints at something more. Both a provocation as well as a kind of yearning that makes Hugh feel all tied up inside. Hugh doesn’t think he will be able to hold out against whatever Callum is hinting at. He doesn’t want to anymore.

*****

Later on, Hugh will admit that his cake dusting was sloppy that afternoon. He will blame it on the concept that he is not a fan of using sieves instead of the fact that his proximity to Callum pulls him in all kinds of ways.

Maybe one day he’ll admit that when Rennie turned to him and mentioned that he’s covered in powder, he was hoping for a kiss. And yet, that first lick on his neck, slow and strong, followed by the vibration of Callum’s happy mumble as he nibbled on Hugh’s ear, was a tasty curveball. He’ll even concede that he had no doubts about Callum being a great kisser.

Only Callum will know, however, why Hugh blushes when Callum tells him he feels like having some hazelnut cake.


End file.
